Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Good Morning Justin

Letter to my Son3 June, Sunday

The old dog named Jake arrived late Friday giving me time
enough to assemble his new kennel and wooden doghouse. He’s eleven years old so that makes him
eligible for any senior discounts available for the canines among us. His best friend, Keith, has had to move to a
place far too civilized for any dog to enjoy with the possible exception of a
poodle trained to dance for doggie hors d’oeuvres. First thing Saturday morning Jake and I went
on a long, brisk walk. We avoided the
tidy neighborhood nearby and, instead, followed a path that initially
paralleled the northbound tracks of the Norfolk
Southern. We came upon a road that once
had only three houses along it. Now just
two remain as a ramshackle residence, providing a home to two kids and a dog, burned
to the ground one night shortly after Christmas. Everyone made it out alright but among the
debris left scattered out front of the charred crumble the next morning was
someone’s collection of NASCAR
toys. They’d all lost their race car
shapes when they turned gooey from the heat.
The remains of the home were quickly bulldozed and everything was hauled
away. Spring rains quickly turned the
lot green and as Jake nosed about the area no one would easily guess people had
recently lived here.

Near the Le Bleu Tow Truck building residents of the
neighborhood cross the tracks to get to the small business area on Midway
Boulevard that includes a What-A-Burger. You can eat inside or you can order from any
one of a number of stalls that are each equipped with their own intercom and
menu. There’s also a pawn shop and a
snug convenience market next door where the signs are often in Spanish. It was here it was said the high school girl
was headed to buy a pack of cigarettes one school day last fall when she was
hit by the morning Amtrak headed north to places like High
Point and Greensboro. The
small wood cross and plastic flowers her friends left at this fateful point to
commemorate her life endured the winter cold and a couple of snowfalls before
eventually being carted off when the railroad crew came through to refurbish
the track with new wood ties and steel rails.
When crossing the tracks it’s always best to keep in mind that freight
trains trundle by while passenger trains barrel through at what seems about
twice the speed of freight.

Jake and I made our way through a gathering of folks taking
advantage of the still cool morning air while they browsed among the items being
sold at the benefit yard sale held out back of the MidwayUnitedMethodistChurch. We crossed a couple of grassy open fields and
skirted a small community garden sponsored by the local Baptists, all the while
Jake pulled me along with his eager, impatient gait. I began to wonder just how much steam the old
dog was capable of generating so when we reached the Anointed Barber Shop, a
natural turn around for home, I decided, instead, to continue in the direction
that would take us to the center of old Kannapolis. We walked in the shade of a line of trees
that kept us within sight of Dale Earnhardt Boulevard,
named after the local boy who made good.
If we followed it all the way we would eventually arrive at DaleEarnhardtPlaza
where park benches surround a magnificent bronze statue of the home town hero,
standing there with arms folded in his iconic Levis
and cowboy boot, mustached stance. The
surrounding buildings are mostly vacant these days and it seems only the movie
theatre can make a go of it in this part of town. The Gem Theatre is old enough to have a balcony
and its been a community fixture since Kannapolis was
just a company town for the once dominate textile factory, Cannon Mills. The old black and white pictures of the
installation on display at the local library give me the definite impression
that this place was once the General Motors of the cotton kingdom.

We won’t make it all the way into town on this day. Jake’s leash begins to show some slack well
before we reach the outskirts of the old brick village and there’s still quite
a walk ahead for us to make it back home.
Jake’s a good dog, a good walker.
He responds to the slightest tug of the leash indicating my intended
direction. When he was young and
headstrong he got himself into some serious trouble for killing the neighbor’s
ducks and chickens. That’s all long
behind him now. He barely acknowledged
the taunting squirrels Saturday that ran close across his path. I’m thinking the dog will want a long, cool
drink when he returns and it would be good to get him a bone for an afternoon
snack, one that he can busy himself with licking the moist marrow from the
bone’s center while resting himself in the shade. It sounds like the perfect treat for a dog’s
life.